


Sure Feels Like I'm Falling Down Again

by PeopleCoveredInFish



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, F/M, First Time, Hot Touou Coach, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Teacher-Student Relationship, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-27
Updated: 2014-05-27
Packaged: 2018-01-26 17:22:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1696310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeopleCoveredInFish/pseuds/PeopleCoveredInFish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As terrible ideas go, it sticks out like an iceberg in the still waters of Harasawa’s rule-borne life, and he’s damned if he’s not going to run right into it for once.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sure Feels Like I'm Falling Down Again

**Author's Note:**

> All parties involved are of age. While consent is given enthusiastically, this is a professor/student/student fic, and thus features dynamics that can be considered ethically dubious in nature.

He knows it’s a mistake before he even sees them, before he even lets himself think about a white corvette on a student’s income, knows when it’s just a monstrous beauty of a car pulling up right next to him. “Need a ride, professor?”

Harasawa doesn’t need the visual confirmation to identify the voice, but then again Imayoshi Shouichi, as a whole, is often best left to the imagination. He looks up anyway, unsurprised that Momoi-san is sitting in the front seat, not fiddling with her hair or the hem of her skirt, but fixing what appears to be the extent of her remarkable mental acuity on him, head tilted slightly to one side.

As terrible ideas go, it sticks out like an iceberg in the still waters of Harasawa’s rule-borne life, and he’s damned if he’s not going to run right into it for once. “I’m afraid you’ll have to share with Satsuki-san,” Imayoshi-san notes, fingers running over the leather-clad steering wheel in soothing, gentle formations, and Harasawa looks at the car, looks at his students, and looks at the unwavering, forbidding expanse of his superego before sending his professionalism to an early grave and climbing into the front seat.

They’re racing past rivers and acres of cultivated woodlands, the car running smoothly over roads designed for more domestic, homely vehicles. Approximately forty percent of Harasawa’s brain is occupied with an attempt to convince him that Momoi-san is not, in fact, seated in his lap, but rather on some phantom platform directly above him and his imperiled soul. He tugs at the wilting edges of his tie, deep red in accordance with his refusal to embrace the dull dictums of his field’s dress code, and takes what he knows won’t be a calming breath.

“Getting a bit warm, are we?”

He can feel Imayoshi-san’s attention settle on him like a sparrowhawk. “We’re in a convertible,” Harasawa says, and it’s both a refutation and an excuse and he tries not to think about why it makes Imayoshi-san smile in that eviscerating way of his.

“You never did say where you live, professor,” Imayoshi-san comments as they zip past what has to be the most densely populated egret habitat in greater Tokyo.

Momoi-san is moving around in his lap, a fact he’s attempting to delay from fully processing for as long as possible, and then she’s turned her face towards him. “Shou-chan’s place is right up the road, if you’d rather not say. There’s a minibar.”

Something about the sheer boldness of the statement unknots his cognitive dissonance, because he decides to takes this as the perfectly sensible recommendation it’s almost certainly not.  Within minutes, the car is rocketing up the expanse of a private drive lined with tastefully mottled flagstones, and Harasawa stops trying to calculate just how much a place like this would set him back monthly when he realizes that somewhere down that line of thought he’d put a hand on Momoi-san’s waist. The Corvette slows to a stop under a magnificent dogwood. Imayoshi-san shifts it smoothly into park and turns off the ignition, turning in the leather seat to grace Harasawa with another of his veiled glances. “Shall we?”

He feels the catch of a seam under his fingertips and releases his hold on Momoi-san’s blouse; he’s mortified in eight completely different ways, all of which are eclipsed when he follows them in through the stately entrance to the building, outfitted with marble columns, and steps into the elevator. If he wasn’t already fully aware of the magnitude of terrible ideas that constitute the entirety of this field trip, he’s now stuck in a small, vertically-minded room paneled with mirrors that spin endless echoes of his two best and brightest across his field of vision and the tattered remains of his conscience.

The doors slide open; he catches a glimpse of himself before stepping out. He’s a mess of sweat and rumpled fabric and his hair is corkscrewing in the lingering humidity and he’s wondering where, exactly, he should be sending his resignation letter. Two steps into Imayoshi-san’s apartment and he must be looking worse already, because the kid is smiling in what Harasawa believes is supposed to be reassurance and saying, “I’ve made a few good investments over the years.”

Unless Imayoshi-san is a _very_ youthful-looking geriatric—and Harasawa dismisses the thought with a grimace—there’s no way anyone could make such a profit off the stock market before even graduating university. And what a profit it is: the apartment appears to extend across the entirety of the top floor, laid out in clean lines of classic Japanese minimalism with a touch of Danish, leading all the way to a westward-facing floor-to-ceiling window. Counters, surfaces, appliances, all attuned to the latest trends in modern design.

Imayoshi Shouichi must come from yakuza stock. Harasawa wonders when he’s going to die.

“Since you’re here,” says Momoi-san, breaking through his reverie, “we could use some tutoring.”

He’s sure her blouse hadn’t been quite so open five minutes ago. “I’m,” he manages, “Well. I’m not sure why either of you would particularly need or want tutoring.”

It’s the most honest he’s been all day. They’re the most intelligent, capable duo to come through the department in a decade, having blown through most of the upper-level courses in their first two years and dedicating themselves to graduate-level work this past semester.

The two exchange looks, and Imayoshi-san clarifies, “So much of my understanding of your work, professor, is purely theoretical.”

“Well, it _is_ particle physics,” Harasawa says.

“All the same,” returns Imayoshi-san, “a practical demonstration would really be invaluable. Don’t you agree, Satsuki-san?”

Momoi-san nods emphatically, sweeping her long hair across her shoulders. “But first, drinks?”

She leads him towards the kitchen. “Water would be perfect, thank you,” he says, with as much conviction as he can muster.

“Don’t want something a little stronger?” Imayoshi-san says from where he’s lounging against the stainless steel refrigerator, “Satsuki-san makes a beautiful Sex on the Beach.”

Harasawa chokes and spends the next fifteen seconds or so coughing vigorously, shaking his head a couple times to dispel the offer.

“Shame,” says Imayoshi-san, before turning to his companion.

“I don’t want anything too fancy,” Momoi-san begins, before confidently listing an array of liquors, mixers, and garnishes in an intimidating variety of ratios to one another.

Imayoshi-san smiles and pulls a couple bottles down from an upper shelf, button-down shirt riding up to reveal a sliver of his back, and Harasawa really needs to be elsewhere right now. This is before Imayoshi-san takes off his shirt, presumably for ease of access to the drinking supplies, leaving him in a thin v-neck that clings to his lean, muscular frame.

“Whiskey,” says Harasawa, “just. A whiskey neat.”

There’s the solid clink of a bottle being set down on the counter, and Imayoshi-san is moving towards him. “I don’t mind spouting innuendoes until the cows come home,” he says, eyes shining with suppressed laughter, “but what I’d really like right about now is for you to start taking off that tie.”

And he’s known this was coming, kept the probability close against the surface of his skin; he turns towards Momoi-san, who’s fixing him with her signature evaluatory smile. “I could get fired for this,” he tells her, not quite pleadingly.

“You do know the department receives a great deal of support from Shou-chan’s investments, I hope,” she says brightly.

Definitely yakuza. Harasawa is still looking at Momoi-san, sure that she can read the fear and arousal thrumming through his body, when he feels a cool hand slide under his shirt. He wonders just why he thought it would be a good idea to turn his back on Imayoshi-san and inhales sharply at the press of lips against his neck, the whisper into the shell of his ear. “So, is that a yes, professor?”

The kitchen is larger than Harasawa’s entire apartment and they’re all three in a corner of it, Imayoshi-san’s fingers tracing patterns on his back and Momoi-san looking at his shirt like she’d rather it didn’t exist. “Please,” he says, voice dipping deep with desire, “God, please.”

He can feel Imayoshi-san’s smile stinging the back of his neck, and another hand materializes on his waist, thumb dipping under the waistband of his pants to brush his hipbone, and it’s all he can do not to sag back against the kid completely. Momoi-san wastes no time going for the buttons on his shirt, humming appreciatively when her work is done—and that’s ridiculous, he’s certainly not bad-looking but he’s almost forty. She must catch his skepticism because she huffs and then she’s pulling him down by his still-knotted tie; just her lips against his send sparks down his spine. She sucks on his tongue and he lets out a quiet moan from the back of his throat as Imayoshi-san chuckles and brushes his fingers over Harasawa’s chest.

“What do you think, Satsuki-san,” asks Imayoshi-san, “should we take this somewhere more comfortable?"

“Oh, I think so,” she says, and picks apart the wilted mess that’s Harasawa’s tie before grabbing him by the hand and leading him down the hallway, closely followed by Imayoshi-san, towards the expanse of glass window at the end of the apartment.

They take a turn into a large and stylishly-appointed bedroom. Momoi-san is dextrous enough to back towards the bed while divesting him of his shirt and belt. He can feel Imayoshi-san getting hard behind him as he nips at a shoulder blade, and a rush of heat floods his body. Once his pants are off, Momoi-san sweeps her hair back and tugs her shirt up over her head before stepping out of her skirt. Her lingerie is pale pink with an overlayer of white lace, the fullness of her breasts brimming just over the cups of her bra, and Harasawa attempts to regulate his breathing. “Nice,” comments Imayoshi-san from behind him, and she rolls her eyes, climbing up onto the bed.

Momoi-san crawls across the covers, pausing to look over her shoulder at them, her pert, round ass in the air. Harasawa feels Imayoshi-san shoving him forward, with a gentleness he finds surprising, and he lies down next to Momoi-san and watches as Imayoshi-san peels off his thin v-neck and stalks towards the bed, setting his glasses down on a side table. He’s not expecting vulnerability, but the kid is even more inscrutable barefaced, any softness about him masked by that damned smirk, hair falling forward and grazing his cheekbones in a way that Harasawa really, _really_ doesn’t want to find as sexy as he does.

“Well, then,” says Imayoshi-san, settling smoothly over his thighs, lines of denim threads in his jeans skidding across Harasawa’s bare skin, and Imayoshi-san leans down and presses their lips together, bringing a hand up to brush the join of his jaw. Momoi-san has moved down the length of the bed and is nipping at Harasawa’s inner thighs. Something low and soft claws its way out of his throat, and he can feel Imayoshi-san’s smile pressing up against his mouth, can feel the cool edges of teeth on his lips.

He has had little opportunity or reason to consider the sensitivity of the flesh behind his right knee before Momoi-san sinks her teeth into it, harsh and centered. The bite pulses through him and his hips snap upwards instinctively. He is all too aware of Imayoshi-san’s lithe body stretched out over him, can feel his cock stiff and ready against his, even through two layers of fabric. Imayoshi-san groans, the sound heady with appreciation and a thread of arrogance that syncs with Harasawa’s rushing pulse, skipping sweetly over his skin.

It’s not as though he’s inexperienced, or been particularly wanting for partners—he’s had his share of serious boyfriends and girlfriends, as well as a handful of flings in his student days. He’d be hard-pressed, however, to say that his past escapades have prepared him for anything like this, not when he’s breached approximately fifty three university policies and every modicum of common sense, not when Imayoshi-san slides up his body to make room for Momoi-san, who looks right into Harasawa’s eyes as she licks the bulge in his briefs.

“I’m not,” he gasps, voice harsh to his own ears, “in good enough shape for this.”

Momoi-san smiles mercilessly and hooks her fingers under the elastic band, working the briefs down his thighs with a gentle nudge. “Maybe you should go back to the court sometime, professor.”

Harasawa chokes. “How can you possibly know about that?”

Imayoshi-san crawls across the plush duvet until he’s directly behind Momoi-san, running an inquisitive hand up her right thigh. “You used to play basketball, professor?”

“I don’t,” he begins, and Momoi-san is running a spit-slick hand up his shaft, humming slightly in concentration, and he shivers and says, “Stop calling me that.”

Imayoshi-san smiles and tilts his head, and Harasawa knows he’s been caught out, knows the kid can tell he likes it. “I told you about that already, Shou-chan,” murmurs Momoi-san, not taking her eyes off Harasawa’s cock.

“Did not,” is the reply, and Imayoshi-san kisses the soft arch of her lower back and pulls the lace-lined panties down. Momoi-san breathes in, lips turned-up and trembling, and Imayoshi-san buries his face between her legs.

“Did too,” she says, falsely petulant and eyes fluttering shut as he licks into her, “the national team, as a matter of fact.”

Harasawa tries to breathe steadily as Momoi-san works his cock with her hand. “That was years ago.”

He doesn’t say just _how_ many years ago, a needlessly strategic move considering who he’s dealing with. Momoi Satsuki’s data-gathering skills are nothing short of legendary in university gossip consciousness; she knows more about the school and its operations than any of its paid staff, board and president included. She knows enough and wields the influence to push for hiring and firing according to her whims, and at this moment she smiles, lips sweet with hunger, and then she swallows him down.

Her throat slipping around him, muscles working steadily, pulls a lengthy moan from the center of his chest and he’s straining with the need to move closer, to slide fully into her. She grinds back against Imayoshi-san’s mouth, knees shifting against the bed to further spread her legs. Harasawa lets his head fall against the pillow. He latches onto the waves of sensation thrumming through his body and rides their current, closing his eyes and just letting himself go, before a light touch on his thigh brings him back. Momoi-san pulls his hand to her head and he slips his fingers through the fall of her hair; brushes them up the side of her neck.

Lucky, really, that he’d opened his eyes at that moment. Imayoshi-san is shifting back on the bed and shucking off his jeans, under which he is, it becomes apparent, wearing absolutely nothing. Momoi-san slips off of Harasawa and sits up. “Shou-chan,” she chides, voice leveling off at the point of sounding scandalized, “all day?”

Imayoshi-san shrugs. It’s brazenness cloaked in sheepish disavowal. Harasawa rejects it with a sharp thrill in his gut, and for a moment he allows himself to think that he _has_ Imayoshi Shouichi, his contradictions collapsed into a body built in lines of stealth and stamina; his mouth pretending at something like humility. Then, Imayoshi-san stretches, cords of muscle shifting under his skin, and Harasawa smiles at his own folly. There’s only one person he knows with the ability to really read Imayoshi Shouichi, and she’s equally inscrutable to Harasawa apart from the fact that the pair of them emit equally strong danger signals that reel him in like the first soft strains of a siren song.

Momoi-san runs her hands down Harasawa’s legs and starts to straddle him as Imayoshi-san watches, silent, from the foot of the bed. She’s perched right over him and he’s breathing hard, suddenly lucid. “Shouldn’t we be...don’t you have…”

The look she trains on him is one he recognizes from his class. It’s pure analysis and evaluation, rendered more salient in its clinical nature by the intimacy of their surroundings. Her breath stirs the curls around his cheeks and his skin is flushed with the effort of keeping still when she’s this close to him. “You’re clean,” she says, “so are we. And I’m on the pill.”

Harasawa blinks at her and tries not to think about how she might have obtained access to his personal medical records. “Right,” he says. She doesn’t move, eyes still fixed on his. Her thighs are trembling slightly with the effort of holding her position above him, and he realizes what she’s waiting for. His next inhalation is rushed, shaky, his head is spinning with want and he didn’t work his way through graduate school and eight years of teaching to risk everything by making a reckless mistake.

He nods.

She sinks down around him with a sigh. The slick heat of it rushes through him, he can’t keep his hips from arcing up into her, and she’s kissing him, her chest pressing against his. “I really don’t think she’d mind if you took that bra off,” says Imayoshi-san, who, Harasawa notes with a groan, is preparing himself, rocking down onto his own lube-slick fingers.

Harasawa slips his hands up the soft curve of her back and unhooks the clasp; the fabric falls away and he wonders why he waited, mouths the fullness of her breasts with all the reverence of a penitent. She throws her head back as she rides him, grinding down to take him as deeply as possible. His eyelids flutter closed against the tide of stimulation. Momoi-san has planted her hands on his shoulders, and the multiple points of contact draw his awareness deep through his body, senses flaring with her every movement against him. It’s a familiar tightness he feels, as though he’s floating in suspension. “I’m,” he manages, and to his embarrassment, it comes out more like a whine.

“I’d prefer it if you didn’t,” says Momoi-san, the rebuke gentle yet crisp in articulation, “Shou-chan would greatly appreciate it as well.”

Harasawa inhales weakly, looks over at Imayoshi Shouichi fucking himself on four of his fingers, and tugs lightly at his own balls. He feels himself slipping back from the edge. The bed beneath him is firm; the sheets resplendent in an excessive thread count.  Momoi-san continues riding him, slowly now, breath coming in even pants, and Harasawa circles a thumb around the edge of her clit. Her breath hitches; she grabs his hand and grinds right into his palm, twines her fingers through his hair, pulling his head back to bite at his neck. He pins his focus there, to the tightness of teeth on skin, and it’s this focus that enables him to hold back as she comes, gasping, and clenching around him.

She wraps her arms around his neck and he meets her halfway in a kiss that’s slow and sated. And Imayoshi-san is there, pressing his lips to the back of her shoulder and meeting Harasawa’s eyes before turning around, back arched, spinal curvature cutting into the air around him. “Whenever you’re ready, professor.”

His voice is even, syllables steady on his tongue, and Harasawa can’t see his face but he can picture the minute twist to the mouth, slanting into indulgence even though it’s Imayoshi-san on his hands and knees. Harasawa says, “you want it...like this?” and curses the reticent tumble of words, but Imayoshi-san responds like he means it.

“Please,” he says, emphasizing the word with a slight shift of his hips.

It’s five shades of politeness without a hint of the desperation Harasawa still feels thrumming through his veins, but when he looks closely he can see the sheen of sweat along his upper back; the soft but rapid rate of his breathing. Momoi-san runs her tongue up the outside of Imayoshi-san’s thigh. “Be patient, Shou-chan.”

“As the Buddha himself,” is the reply, shot through with honey, and Harasawa pinches his ass just to hear the pained, satisfied hiss that follows.

He slicks himself with lube and lines up with Imayoshi-san, pushing in slowly despite the latter’s attempts to thrust back against him. Harasawa waits until he’s fully enveloped in that unyielding closeness before setting a pace that thrums through their blood, skipping through their neural connections with every breath. Imayoshi-san is tense beneath him and he reaches for his cock, moving over him with a flick of the wrist. For her part, Momoi-san has shifted into position in front of Imayoshi-san. She’s kissing him and he’s kissing back with a fervent fondness that, beyond anything he’s seen today, catches Harasawa off-guard. Their movements are gentle, intimate, and he may be balls-deep in Imayoshi Shouichi but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t feel like he’s intruding on a private moment. He’s just contemplating whether an adjustment to the angle and force of his thrusts will facilitate a decrease in his verifiable presence when Momoi-san ends the kiss and hails him directly.

It is difficult, in this particular situation, to respond in any format other than the monosyllabic, which Harasawa manages well enough. “You’ve been so accommodating,” Momoi-san tells him, voice as pleasantly neutral as one having just received classroom instruction, “and unless I’m very much mistaken, Shou-chan is nearly finished. I don’t think there’s any need to hold back now, do you?”

This last is addressed to Imayoshi-san, who, in lieu of a verbal response, trembles, grunts with the force of a man punched, and spills to completion over Harasawa’s hand. Muscles spasming around him, Harasawa gives into the heady, heavy rush, the sensation of unfathomable expansion, mouth open and trailing a string of what could very generously be classified as dry sobs.

The grip of the body around him suddenly too much, he pulls out and slumps over Imayoshi-san, who has dropped onto the nearest pillow with a contented sigh. For a moment, they lie there, Momoi-san brushing her fingers through his ungainly tangle of hair. Imayoshi-san nudges him with a drowsy elbow. “You performed admirably, professor.”

Harasawa rests, supine, between them both and considers adjusting his lesson plans.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm aware that Harasawa is actually a chemistry teacher in canon, but the pull to joke about a 'practical demonstration' of 'particle physics' was too strong to resist.


End file.
